Chapter 9 #2
Wait . . . what . . . ?
Oh. “Dawson, um, we need to talk.”
He nodded, swallowed. “Especially since we’re going to be trapped here for at least another day. Landon is the local weatherman, and according to the reports on his shortwave, this storm won’t blow through until tomorrow, maybe the next day.”
Oh. But the words blew through her like a fragrance, a fresh breeze, grace maybe. “Good. I like it here. I think I never want to leave.”
She meant it to change the subject. Instead, Dawson’s gaze steadied on hers, and he lowered his voice. “I’m a cop. There is nothing you could tell me that would shock me, Keely. And remember, I already think you’re amazing.”
She stilled. But wanted, oh how she wanted to believe him.
She found herself nodding. “Okay, so—”
“Hey, Daws!” Griffin’s voice raised from the end of the room. “I need some help with the firewood.”
Dawson sighed, then glanced at him and nodded. “Be right there.”
But when he stood up, he said, “We have a Battleship rematch ahead of us.” He winked and walked away.
She watched him go, her heart thundering.
But, in the wake, she heard the end of her song . . .
Could it be that you see the truths I hide?
In the snow’s pure blanket, where my deepest dreams reside?
A look, a touch in the frosty air,
Reveals the me I’ve hidden, now laid bare.
And she smiled.
“You’re humming.”
Dawson looked up from where he stood on the stacked woodpile, tossing down logs to Griffin and Landon. Overflow firewood, the cords that didn’t fit in the shed, lined the back of the barn, two stalls deep.
“It’s something Keely was singing earlier.” He didn’t know why it stuck in his head, but he liked it.
She did have a pretty voice, and today, it seemed stronger.
She seemed stronger. Not that she’d seemed weak before, but last night, as he’d struggled through the snow to get them back to the lodge, she hung on to him tighter than he would have imagined.
The kiss sat in his mind, his chest all night, the smell of her, the taste of her, as if surprised, but eager, almost curious. All the way up to “I’m sorry. This can’t work.”
Whatever. The kiss, he could blame on her next words, the part about not wanting to hurt him, as if she had secrets that might make him walk away from her.
Hello, he’d already told her his, and she hadn’t run.
He wouldn’t run either.
“She has a nice voice,” Griffin said as he picked up a couple chunks of firewood tossed into the snow. He added them to the two-person tote made of canvas and wooden handles. Griffin and Landon had already carried in one load.
Now, Landon worked his way down the row of livestock pens, feeding the animals.
Outside the blizzard howled, relentless. Alaska.
“Probably a good thing for her to be holed up here, really. Let her voice heal.”
Dawson frowned as he tossed down a few more logs, then climbed down the ladder. His knee felt tired today, but not as achy. All this regular work seemed good for it.
Good for him. Moose showed up in his head, as he clapped off the wood splinters from his hands. “God uses circumstances to wake us up, get at things inside.”
Stuff. Like grief and anger and frustration . . . but here, suddenly, all of that didn’t seem quite so raw. Maybe Keely’s words had found root—“There is a lot more churning around inside here, Dawson. And none of it adds up to you being the villain.”
He’d called himself the villain for so long, he didn’t know what to replace it with. But maybe . . . “Yeah,” Dawson said. “Like you said, maybe we were supposed to stay.”
Griffin threw the wood on the pile. “I know. Despite the storm, there’s a peace here, right?”
Dawson shrugged and kept working.
“Or maybe it’s not the place, but a person.”
He looked at Griffin, frowned. “Are you talking about Keely?”
“Actually, I was referring to Jesus. And I know he’s not just here, but sometimes it’s easier to see grace and abundance and mercy and all the things when we find ourselves safe and warm inside a storm.”
From the last stall, the one closest to the wood, the llama shrieked, clearly ruffled at the disturbance. What did Griffin call her—Woolly Bully? The animal had already rammed her cage once, leaning down to nip at them as they worked.
“Maybe. But . . . sometimes I feel like I’m standing in the middle of it.” Dawson didn’t know what it was about Griffin, but he seemed . . . well, he seemed to get it.
The man picked up the feed bucket. “Cold and suffering and alone? That’s not a bad thing either.”
“Suffering is a good thing?” Dawson added a few logs to the tote.
“Absolutely. Suffering helps us taste just a little of what Jesus did for us. It brings a greater understanding of his love, grace, and mercy. And, hopefully, brings us a little closer to God. So, while we don’t love storms, we’re not afraid of them.
Right, Woolly?” Griffin poured feed into a bucket attached to her pen. Turned to Dawson.
“In the ebb and flow of the world, of the terrible and the good, maybe darkness doesn’t win because God’s goodness is still in the world, through his people. Through his providence. Even when it feels like the darkness is winning.”
He dropped the bucket back into her feed bin. “And it doesn’t hurt that you get to have Keely around just a little longer, before the world finds out.”
Dawson stared at him. “What?”
“She’s not at all like I expected. Quieter, for one, and resilient, although anyone who stands on a stage for three hours in five-inch stilettos has to have some kind of resilience.” He laughed.
Landon finished, walked over. “My boys have been freaking out for three days. They’re dying for an autograph.”
Again, Dawson just looked at him. “I don’t . . . what are you talking about?”
“Don’t you recognize her?” Griffin asked. “She’s Bliss.”
A beat while he scrolled through any recognition. Wait—“The pop singer?”
Bliss. He’d heard her songs on the radio, of course, and, “No. That’s not right. I saw her perform once. She wore an all-pink bodysuit, glitter on her face, and go-go boots. I think it was—”
“The Grammys, two years ago. I saw it while I was at Walter Reed. We all did—it was memorable. But she did have pipes. Hopefully the surgery worked, and she’ll get them back.”
So much to unpack there, but Bliss?
So that was her secret. And yes, a big one.
“She never said a word.”
Griffin looked at Landon. Back to Dawson. “Sorry. I thought you knew. River recognized her right away, and Bliss—Keely—asked her to keep it quiet. That’s why I thought you never mentioned it. Sorry, man.”
“Why would she not tell me?”
Griffin picked up one end of the canvas tote, grunted. Dawson moved in to grab the other side, but Landon beat him to it.
“Maybe she thought you already knew.” He and Landon moved off with the tote.
Dawson stood in the chill of the barn. “You don’t know anything about me.”
But he did, like he said. He knew about Vic, and her dad, and the death of her mother. He knew she could fix a car and . . .
Maybe that was the part she wanted him to know.
The Bliss part? So, maybe he didn’t know her.
Still. Okay. So she was a city girl. And famous.
Very famous.
Except, “I like it here. I think I never want to leave.”
Yeah, he needed answers. Dawson blew out a breath and followed Griffin into the house.
He hadn’t realized how long he’d been gone. A few families sat at long tables, some of them with books open. He recognized homeschool when he saw it.
Caspian went from family to family, stopping to nose a kid, get a pat, and move on. Sheesh, the guy was in some kind of heaven here. Had stopped edging up to him, pushing against him as if needy. Still sat with his back to him, however.
Maybe he should leave Caspian behind, let him be a community dog. The thought put a slight fist in his chest. Still, he hadn’t been Dawson’s dog, really.
He could admit a spurt of warmth, however, when the dog spotted him and came bounding over. Sat and lifted a paw.
Dawson shook it—silly dog—and then petted him.
He glanced into the kitchen, spotted River and Nance and a few others, but no sign of Keely.
Movement at the top of the stairs caught his eye.
Keely. She wore a pair of pink velour pants, her fur short boots, an oversized sweatshirt, her hair down and wet, and just like that, he saw it.
Bliss.
Maybe a memory, maybe just his imagination, but in his mind, she walked down stairs onto a stage, a million-dollar, stage-worthy smile on her face, her hair glittering, ready to wow the crowd.
What was Bliss doing here, in the backwoods of Alaska?
Vic. Right. And her story about her mom, her rejection by her father rushed back, filled in the gaps . . .
Aw, Bliss. Under all the glamour and grins was a woman who just wanted to be known. Loved.
She saw him and smiled. Took a breath.
Wait—did she look nervous?
He walked over to her as she came down the stairs. “Hey. New duds?”
“Gotta love the discard barrel. But I did get a bath. I might live.”
He couldn’t stop himself. “I know.”
She’d reached the bottom of the steps. “Right? Something about a warm bath—I could have used a few bubbles though. Still, they have this homemade shampoo soap—”
“No. I know, Keely.”
She stopped on the bottom step, and it could be his imagination, but the blood seemed to drain from her. “You do?”
“What you were going to tell me before”—he cut his voice down, just in case she did mean for it to be a secret—“I know. And it’s okay.”
She swallowed again and looked away. But in that flash of a moment, her eyes blurred with tears.
What—? “It’s not a big deal.”
“It’s a very big deal,” she said quietly, her hazel-blue eyes on his, holding them.
Almost a spark in the gold of her eyes. “And it’s about to be a bigger deal.
Maybe. Or maybe not. I don’t . . .” She closed her eyes, a tear winked out, landed on her cheek.
She brushed it away, almost angrily, and turned back to him. “I’m just such a coward.”
He frowned, and something shifted inside him, because, what?